


Cane catharsis

by cuffedCatling



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Bottom Will Graham, Caning, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Sex, Spanking, Top Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 20:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13597680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuffedCatling/pseuds/cuffedCatling
Summary: When a distraught Will Graham turns up in Hannibal Lecter's office, Hannibal knows just what kind of therapy Will needs. And he will happily provide it.





	Cane catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> (I'm not a native speaker, sorry if anything sounds weird. Please feel free to point out mistakes.)

It is way past hours when Hannibal opens his office door and finds a startled Will Graham standing there.  
“How.. how did you know I was out here?”  
Hannibal smiles and stands aside. “I heard noises and thought I might find a stray dog seeking shelter at my door. Please, come in.”  
Will hesitates, rubbing his cold hands together. But the warmth of Hannibal's office finally convinces him to enter.

Hannibal closes the door behind him. “How long were you standing there, contemplating whether to knock or not?”, he asks, curious.  
“I..” Will rubs his neck, suddenly embarrassed. “Doctor Lecter, I'm sorry. I don't know why I came here, I just..”  
“It is quite alright, good Will, don't worry. Come.” Hannibal gently guides his visitor to his usual chair in the office.

Will slumps into the chair, then sits straight up again, like there was too much to do to sit still.  
Hannibal calmly settles into his own chair, facing Will. “Do you need something to warm up? Tea, or perhaps a blanket?”  
Will dismisses the idea with a curt shake of his head, then removes his jacket, like he just remembered he still had it on. He scoots back into the chair again, clearly distracted by his own thoughts.  
He should have prevented it. He should have tried harder. He should have..

„You're agitated, Will.“ Hannibal's calm voice cuts through his frantic thoughts.  
„Yes,“ Will chokes out and forcefully stops tapping his foot against the chair.  
„Do you wish to talk about it?“  
„I..“ Will runs a distraught hand through his hair. „No. It won't change anything.“  
„Shall I talk about it, then?“ Hannibal crosses his legs and props his head on his hand. He regards Will for a moment.  
„You feel guilty,“ Hannibal finally says into Will's stubborn silence. „You think you should have been able to prevent this second murder. If you had only pushed yourself past your endurance. Past the limits of even your special talents. If you had allowed harm to come to yourself, it might have been enough to prevent the harm to these innocents. You feel personally responsible for their deaths. Like it was the sole purpose of your being to stop the murders. And yet you failed the task.“

Will avoids his gaze and slumps deeper into his chair. Hannibal continues his observation.  
„You devote yourself to solving the case. You immerse yourself in it. You feel like you don't deserve anything good until you stop the bad. And here you are, exhausted and upset. Not in the slightest fit to resolve the problem, but still you push on. Denying yourself any rest, even unconsciously. Have you slept at all the last night, Will?“  
Will wets his lips. „No,“ he admits quietly, still avoiding his therapist's eyes, “I haven't.”

Hannibal nods. He sits up in his chair and steeples his fingers.   
“So. You deny yourself the very thing you need the most right now. You need rest and relief, yet you think you don't deserve it. Is it pain you think you deserve, Will?”  
Will bites his lower lip and crosses his arms, hugging himself. “I don't like where this is going,” he says hoarsely, “it's wrong.”  
Hannibal allows himself a thin smile. “It's therapy I provide, Will. An unorthodox method, perhaps. But ah, what better fit for an unorthodox person like you.”  
“I.. I don't like it.”  
“And yet you came here. Past my office hours, to seek what your body demands. Full well knowing what I recommended and administered last time you were in such a distress.”  
Will gulps and says nothing.

Hannibals decides he has had enough. He stands up from his chair and goes behind his desk. He can feel Will's eyes following him and takes care not to meet them with his own as he slowly opens the drawer.  
“It's your choice, Will. If you feel you need a regular session of our conversations, you can leave my office right now and come back tomorrow first thing in the morning. I'll clear the earliest spot in my schedule for you. But I think what you really need is to come here and bend over my desk.”

He deliberately turns his back on Will, giving him space to make up his mind and come to a decision. “So, which is it that I need to take out of the drawer? My scheduler or the cane?”  
Will lets out a harsh breath at the last word. It puts a triumphant smile on Hannibal's lips. But he waits patiently until he finally hears the faint rustle of Will's clothes coming towards him.  
He slowly takes the thin cane out of the drawer and resists the urge to swish it through the air. Will is jumpy enough as it is.

When he turns around, Will is already bent over his desk, his face turned away from Hannibal, his hands nervously balled into fists beside him.  
“Good,” Hannibal says approvingly and Will shivers ever so slightly.  
“Now pull your pants down. Do you remember your safeword?”  
Will makes a strangled sound but he slowly reaches back and pulls his pants down, just below the mounds of his behind.  
“Will, I know you don't like to talk about this,” Hannibal says softly, “but I need your consent. Otherwise this is violence, not therapy.”

He lays a firm hand on the small of Will's back and feels him tense up even more. “You can trust me to know the limits of your body, to gauge your reactions and control the pain accordingly. But I need you to be able to talk to me if something is amiss.”  
Will lets out a deep breath and Hannibal can feel him relax a little. “It's fruitcake.”  
“Very good,” he caresses Will's lower back and calmly places the cane against his buttocks. “Now breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Concentrate on your breathing. Let me take care of the rest.”

Will's first few breaths are shaking, but he soon finds a steady rhythm. Hannibal waits until he is ready, idly fondling Will's buttocks with the cane.  
The first stroke traces a beautiful red line across Will's white flesh and draws a grunt from his throat. Hannibal places the second one neatly below the first, not giving his patient any time to think about it. Soon there are five perfectly aligned marks evenly distributed on Will's behind.

Will breathes heavily – Hannibal can feel his tense body heaving beneath his hand – but still he manages not to cry out. Hannibal is confident this won't last.  
“Concentrate on your breathing, Will. In through your nose, out through your mouth,” he instructs, matching the rhythm of his words to a slightly steadier version of Will's current breathing cycle. “In. And out.”

He places the cane back against Will's behind. Starting from the top again, he fills the gaps between the first set of strokes with new ones. The fifth one lands exactly on the soft part where the buttocks meet the thighs. Hannibal smiles as it finally coaxes a whimper from Will.   
“You are doing very good,” he says softly and is rewarded with a tiny sob from his patient.

“Push your pants down a little more now.”  
Will obeys with trembling hands, his whole body rigid with tension.  
Hannibal caresses his back and waits until Will's hands are back on the desk. “Concentrate on your breathing,” he reminds him, “in and out.”

The next strokes land neatly on Will's thighs. A set of five again, evenly distributed across Will's upper legs. Hannibal marvels in the meticulous art he creates. Everything he does in his life is precise and controlled. Caning Will Graham to tears is no exception to this rule.

As though Will strains to remain silent, his breathes turn into sobs every so often now. Hannibal starts to fill the gaps on Will's thighs with five more welts and feels Will's body buckle silently with every stroke.

“A small break,” he announces after the fifth one is done, and Will slumps onto the desk, breathing heavily. Hannibal keeps his hand on Will's back, steadying him, grounding him. Will's plaid shirt is drenched in sweat by now, clinging enticingly to his form.  
He gives Will time to catch his breath, knowing full well the pain will blossom during the short reprieve and make his goal easier to achieve.

It's hard to keep himself from touching Will's buttocks. He imagines the hot and raising welts must feel delicious under his sensitive fingertips. But this is for Will's therapy, not for his own pleasure, so imagination it must remain. For now, anyways.

After a few more heartbeats he delicately taps the cane against Will's buttocks again. Will shudders and straightens his pose obediently. Hannibal waits until his patient's footing is secure again, then he starts the next set of strokes. The welts are intersecting now, the new ones still evenly dispersed, but slightly angled, crossing the welts already there. He doesn't stop after five this time. He delivers ten precise strokes neatly across the already welting lashes, starting at the top of Will's buttocks and reaching down to the end of his thighs.

Will finally cries out at the seventh. By the ninth, Hannibal has to hold him down on the desk so as not to ruin the pattern.  
“Stop, please,” Will gasps after the tenth. His breaths come in hitching sobs now, his body is shaking, tears stand in his eyes, “please, no more.”  
Hannibal soothingly caresses Will's back, but his voice is firm. “You can always safeword out, Will. You know I would respect it. But I think you need this. And I think you know it. You crave this release, Will, grant it to yourself.”  
Will shakes his head even as his body melts into submission. “I can't take it anymore, please,” he whimpers.  
“Let me be the judge of that,” Hannibal says gently, then he taps the cane against Will's buttocks once more. “Up now!”

Will lets out a ragged whimper, but he obeys without hesitation and regains his pose. Hannibal feels the tight muscles in Will's back. But they don't feel as tense as before.   
“And don't bite your lips or fingers, Will,” Hannibal warns, “I want your mouth open. I want you to take the pain freely. I know you can take it.”  
He feels Will shudder under his hand and hears a soft sigh. Then he begins to work the pattern again. The strokes come at a different angle now, criss-crossing all the previous lashes symmetrically. Hannibal delivers all ten in a steady rhythm. Will cries out at every single one of them. He breaks down after the last one, sobbing uncontrollably, tears finally streaming down his face.

Hannibal caresses his shaking frame. “Five more, Will,” he announces calmly, “then we're done.”  
Will's sobbing increases pitifully. But Hannibal knows how important closure is. He has to give Will a final barrier to break, and it has to be one he can consciously work towards.  
“I will count them for you, Will. Stand still.”

Will's body is trembling too much to obey, but it doesn't matter to Hannibal. The time for this kind of minute precision is over. The pattern on Will's body is completed, and to ruin it is but the final act of mastery.

The first stroke lands in the middle of Will's left buttock. Hannibal puts much more force behind it than the others that went across both buttocks, but not enough force to break the skin – just so.  
“One,” he counts calmly while Will wails in pain and his body jerks against the desk.  
The sound of the second stroke cuts through Will's sobbing. It hits the right buttock, forming a new pattern on top of the first one. “Two,” he announces and watches Will writhe in pain on his desk, trying to catch his breath through strangled sobs.  
The third stroke lands in the middle of the right thigh. “Three,” Hannibal counts with a little smile, while Wills knees give way and he struggles to keep upright. 

“Two more, Will,” Hannibal says soothingly but doesn't help him stand up, “you can take them, Will, I know you can.”  
Will whines miserably but he finally manages to get in position again. “Very good,” Hannibal praises and is rewarded by Will finally turning his face in his direction. His eyes are scrunched shut and swollen, his face is a stubbly, blotchy red, wet from tears, and his lips are opened in sobbing gasps. It is a sight so beautiful it almost stops Hannibal from finalizing the new pattern.  
But he has never let emotions disturb his determination.

The fourth stroke lands on the left thigh and complements the new pattern. “Four. And the last one, Will, then it will be over.” He doesn't think Will can hear him over his gasping and sobbing. But it doesn't matter. He holds Will's body in position with the hand on his back, pressing him relentlessly to the desk. He taps the cane against Will's abused flesh to get his attention, then delivers the last blow directly below the buttocks across the whole width.

Will howls out his pain and falls against the desk as his legs give way completely. Hannibal has to catch him to prevent him from falling to the floor.   
He gathers the quivering mess he has made of Will Graham into his arms and lets him cry against his shoulder.  
“You did good, Will. I'm very proud of you.” The shaking and sobbing gets even more violent at that. Hannibal rubs soothing circles on Will's back and refrains from touching the delicious hot welts farther down. Not yet.

It takes a few minutes of Will blindly clinging to him, his body convulsing with strangled sobs until he starts to melt into his embrace and calms down enough to manage the few steps to the settee and lie down on it.  
Hannibal squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. “Stay there, Will, I will be with you presently.”

He is only gone for a few minutes, but when he comes back, Will has managed to pull his underwear back up. He tries to hide his face when Hannibal sits down beside him.  
“Will, I'm a doctor, I doubt there's anything on your body I haven't seen before. Let me treat you.”  
Will whimpers when Hannibal strips him bare, but doesn't resist, too exhausted to put up a fight. Hannibal gently places an ice-cold wet towel across Will's glowing skin, causing him to hiss in pain at the touch. But the cool soon makes him sigh with relief.

Hannibal has brought hot towels as well, and puts them on Will's shoulders and back to relax his overstrained muscles. Will is too far gone to even open his eyes anymore and Hannibal uses his groggy compliance to coax him into drinking some sugary fluids through a straw. He replaces the towels with fresh ones after a few minutes and carefully observes as Will's body unwinds further, going completely slack against the settee. Will's fists are the last to finally unfurl. Hannibal takes his time to examine and bandage the minor cuts Will's fingernails have left on the soft tissue of his hands. He makes a mental note to give him something to hold onto next time.

“Don't go to sleep just yet, Will. Stay with me a moment longer.” A soft frown is the only indication that Will has heard him, but it is enough.  
Hannibal replaces the hot towels with a heavy blanket, covering Will's upper body with it. He puts the cold towel aside – and then he finally gets to touch.

The moist red skin on Will's behind feels cool under his fingertips, but it's radiating a powerful heat from beneath the surface. Hannibal relishes in tracing the beautiful welts with his fingers, humming softly to himself as he checks for lacerations. He knows he didn't cause any, but he checks thoroughly. Will stirs at the first contact, wincing slightly as Hannibal's fingers caress the soft skin on his thighs with feather-light touches. Only when he has traced every single stroke and found no blood is Hannibal satisfied. 

Now the fun part begins. He carefully spreads lotion on his hands and begins to rub it onto the fresh welts. He is generous with the lotion, coating Will's buttocks and thighs with a thick layer, then massaging it into the skin. There's nothing gentle about his touches now. His fingers are deftly gripping the taut flesh, thoroughly kneading the freshly emerging bruises away and soaking the skin with lotion.

Will moans and whimpers deliciously through this ordeal, his muscles too exhausted to do anything but lie there and take it. “..'t hurts,” he whines.  
“Yes.” Hannibal smiles proudly. “It is often through pain that we find catharsis. Do you feel purged, Will? Unburdened?”  
“Yes,” Will sighs after a while.

Hannibal runs his cool slick hands over his burning hot skin, deeply kneading it with knuckles and fingers, moving the taut flesh in this direction and that, pressing deep crevices into it and watches the colour change from red to white and back to red again. Will's battered skin absorbs the lotion quickly, and Hannibal marvels at the friction it causes for his fingers. It also makes Will squirm slightly, which Hannibal enjoys for a few moments. Then he puts a second layer of lotion on Will's behind and repeats the process until the skin feels soft and smooth.

Will sighs deeply when Hannibal finally lets go of his buttocks. “Thank you,” he murmurs, barely audible.  
Hannibal isn't sure whether Will thanks him for the caning, the aftercare, or because he finally stopped hurting him. But he's welcome in any case.  
“Sleep, Will. It's over. You did good.” The smile on Will's lips is faint but there, as he finally succumbs to sleep.

Hannibal unfolds the blanket and covers Will's entire body with it, carefully tucking in the corners. Then he quietly cleans the room, neatly folding Will's clothes and putting them on a chair, and tucking the cane back into the drawer. At last he places a tray next to the settee where Will is snoring softly. He puts the tray where Will can see it when he wakes up, but isn't likely to knock it over. It holds a big glass of water, a fresh bottle of the lotion, with a note of instructions, and a prescription for painkillers.

Hannibal doubts the latter will get filled, and he definitely plans on offering to administer the lotion for Will when they meet next time. But he has an inkling he has to stock up his pantry again to make Will request another caning.  
It is just as well for him. He dims the lights before leaving the room.


End file.
